


Respirofunction

by phaetonschariot



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Breathplay, Dark, Masturbation, Other, Suicidal Ideology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phaetonschariot/pseuds/phaetonschariot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the "breathplay" square for kink_bingo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respirofunction

Torchwood is dangerous enough on its own, really. But that's unpredictable and largely theoretical besides considering that more often than not Ianto's left behind in the underground spy-base to pick up everyone's crap and occasionally provide some well-timed piece of relevant information, possibly with slightly suggestive wording so that Jack can pick up on it and objectify him a little. (Never mind that all the worst things that have happened to him were on Torchwood property, since it's mostly out-of-his-mind terror instead of adrenaline anyway.) Either way anyone would have to be pretty dim to imagine that he'll ever be a cranky old man in a nursing home - not unless you count by the prehistoric life expectancy and allow for the nursing home to be an insane asylum or Flat Holm, that is.

So maybe he doesn't really care about the potential risks of what he's doing, particularly when he's collapsed on his bed after coming _so hard_ and the only movement is his chest heaving while he's breathing, breathing, breathing.

*

Unlock the tourist office, mail, coffee, power up the system, run the web crawlers, check police reports, collect the useful information for Jack, collect the funny bits for no one at all, scan the flagged CCTV footage, get lunch, clean up, replace discarded files and tech into the archives, coffee, apologise to the police/city council/reporters/local business owners/general public, change a lightbulb, clean the guns, clean the bathrooms, feed the weevils, feed the pterodactyl, feed the team, tidy up, set the overnight automated tasks, power down the system, lock the tourist office. Go home. Drink. Eat. Sleep. Wake up and stare at the ceiling.

He thinks he's either a very overpaid janitor or a very underpaid life support system.

*

Once Ianto read that drowning is one of the best ways to die, if you don't just slip away in your sleep. Peaceful. He'd thought that the instant nature of decapitation would be nice too, except then he'd found out that there were records indicating that maybe it actually isn't as instant as all that, that a decapitated head might actually be aware for half a minute after point of separation, and he'd slammed that book shut with a queasy feeling at the idea of staring at his own headless corpse and imagining the thought process that that might spark.

He supposes he'd have to ask Jack if it's true or not, about drowning, or possibly the Doctor if anyone ever got hold of him long enough for him to stop destroying things and/or fleeing the scene. He remembers being thrown into the cesspool in the Hub and the jolting and jarring of his joints and the _oh god it's over finally it's over_ , so that wasn't too peaceful at all but he's pretty sure it was the circumstances that were responsible for that. Plus, it had ended with Jack's tongue in his mouth, breathing for him (he's pretty sure that that's _not_ how they teach you to do mouth-to-mouth, but he really can't be arsed to examine that), so it's hard to get past all that to the more vague feelings like the dizzy lightheadedness that comes from a lack of oxygen.

*

It's too awkward to do it without anything else, difficult to keep the pressure steady with one hand while he jerks off with the other. He gives brief thought to research, his usual standby - he's not naive enough to think that his internet activity isn't being monitored on the offchance he has another girlfriend that Torchwood screwed over though and he's loathe to go into a bookstore and look for the section on "fucked up deviant sexual practices that might kill you". Not that he ever has the time anyway, during business hours, though it's possible that the kind of store that's open in the middle of the night might actually have some useful information.

Instead he resorts to common sense (ha), uses padding to avoid bruises and lacerations from the tight edges of the bathrobe belt and tosses the long end over the railing in his wardrobe like a pulley. If it lets go it'll all come undone and probably he'll fall on his face but otherwise it's good, it's great, it's like flying and coloured patches in his vision, red and black and his mouth hanging open uselessly like a fish, he probably looks a complete tool but it's _so good_ to have a secret that doesn't come loaded with guilt and fear and visions of destruction.

*

Every morning he buttons his shirt right to the top and slides his tie into place. It fits snugly, the knot right in the centre of his throat, and he stares at his reflection in the mirror holding onto the feeling of it, wrapped around him like a hug from someone who could crush him if they wanted. He breathes easy. The suits might be for Jack, but the ties are always for him.


End file.
